Holy Girlhood
I. Via Dolorosa
Granddaddy drained his cup of Folger’s, stuffed his feet in his lace-up work boots, scuffed from hours of tromping across his Texas acres, and then headed out the backdoor. I snuck a Snickers into my pocket and followed him because I was only six and didn’t want to sit in the creaky two-story farmhouse by myself all day.
Granddaddy unlocked the shed to gather the tools he needed for whatever was about to happen. I slipped my feet into the sandals I’d left on the back porch in ballet’s first position—toes pointed east and west, heels touching. Easter sandals. Holy Ghost white. When Granddaddy made for the faded yellow pick-up, I clambered into the shotgun position, hoping that the adventure would be exciting—like the time Granddaddy clamped a metal hook in a dead cow’s nose and towed it across a field—but also that I could stay in the truck. I couldn’t soil my pretty white sandals.
Granddaddy pulled up next to the concrete silo between a passel of old barns that appeared to lean on each other. There were holes in the slats where the sunshine streamed through like stars pricking a night sky. Granddaddy’s farm hand Matt stood on the far side of the largest pen, herding a group of cows forward by slapping their rumps and yelling, “Haw!”
“Bring the water,” Granddaddy said before he shut the door.
I peered over the dashboard, praying I’d see parched earth or grass browned from the July sun. Instead: cow patties. Round dried chips. Fresh green piles steaming in the hot sun. Nubs of cow shit. Epic turds bigger than pecan pies. Swirls and streaks of dung, both fresh and dried. Flies with glimmering thoraxes buzzing to and fro.
I unfolded my legs so my feet dangled over the seat. I pointed and flexed my toes like we did in ballet. Swallowing every brewing dread, I bent over my legs to unbuckle my sandals. I promised Mom I would keep them clean.
The Sunday before my week at the farm, I sat at the breakfast table in Dallas eating blueberry muffins with my parents, brother, and sister.
“She can’t wear her sandals on the farm,” my mom said to my dad. The top of dad’s head bobbed up over the newspaper spread between his outstretched arms. “We aren’t buying new shoes until school starts.” But how would I run through the pastures and down by the creek? The farm was the only place I could slip out from under my regular life that demanded I be a good girl: pretty, clean, quiet, and contained.
My dad folded a corner of the newspaper and met mom’s eyes as he nodded.
My mom’s words were about more than shoes. Whenever we piled into my dad’s car for a Sunday visit or a family reunion at the farm, mom would wave from the porch as we pulled away. She’d join us for funerals, but not weddings and never day trips.
Once I asked my dad why my mom and my grandparents didn’t get along, and he sat me down on the toilet and smeared shaving cream all over his face. With his eyes trained on his reflection in the mirror, he shaved his jawline and explained, “They come from different places. Mom is Catholic; Granddaddy and Grandma are Baptist. There’s a lot you don’t understand.” Which place am I from, I wanted to ask. I watched him rake away his whiskers, making clean tracks through the foamy whiteness until his face was smooth and smelled like Barbasol.
I hated that religion for dividing my family, for splitting me in half.
My Grandparents’ church was a white clapboard box with a small raised stage where the preacher placed a Bible on the podium and talked about Jesus’ love. At Christ the King, our parish in Dallas, a priest in a long black dress droned on in front of stained glass windows depicting Jesus carrying the cross to Mount Calvary—shards of light glared through the Way of Sorrows. Somewhere between those two images lived the reason why my mom never came with us to my grandparents’ house and why my grandparents never said my mother’s name. Between those two images, I zigzagged between Mother and Grandparents, Catholic and Baptist, city and farm.
The biggest and wettest cow patties I could dodge as I bobbed and weaved my way to the wooden fence enclosing the pen where Granddaddy and Matt were corralling a dozen black-and-white cows. I wanted to be brave like them, but I was supposed to stay clean. I climbed onto the top rail, safe. My legs, crossed at the ankles like Jesus’ when he died. I turned my head toward the house, into the breeze, filling my lungs with slightly fresher air.
Granddaddy unlatched a makeshift wire hook and the far side of the fence swung open. He led all of the cows into a chute inside the milk barn fifteen yards ahead.
A rope pulled tight beneath my ribs. I wanted them to invite me into their work, but I also wanted them to protect me like a doll on a shelf. Was it possible to be one thing at home in Dallas—a girl in clean Easter-white sandals—and something else out in this shit-covered pasture miles away from my mom’s eyes?
“Water, please!” Granddaddy yelled from inside the milk barn.
Between us, there was not a single patch of unsoiled ground. Hooves and boots had smeared every inch with fresh cow dung. The smell made the back of my throat quiver.
First step. I slowly placed my foot down in the moistness. I held my breath and looked straight ahead. The warm ooze made my stomach seize with disgust. Next step. My feet reached for the hard earth beneath the muck. I proceeded slowly—step, breath, step, breath. Half way there, I broke out into a run, pretending that the ground was covered in molten lava that could melt my flesh. In the slickness, I lost my balance and stumbled to my knees. The water jug tumbled into the muck.
Back on the wooden fence, I refused to look at the cow shit hardening on my feet and shins. I worried, instead, about the melting Snickers at my hip. The peanuts jutted out from the soft chocolate like seashells half buried in the sand. Their solidness calmed my stomach, cooled my hate.
Because right then, I hated them all. Granddaddy for not understanding the horror of being barefoot in a shit-coated pen. Grandma for leaving me on the farm while she went into town. My mom for sending me off for a week with one pair of shoes I was allowed to wear only part of the time. My dad for not scaring up a second pair of shoes for me. My brother for being a boy who was allowed to tromp around in soiled Adidas sneakers, his bare feet protected. My little sister for having precious baby feet too small and perfect to be as dirty as mine. God for being so dang far away that he couldn’t reach me on this unbearable edge, ping-ponging between the people I loved but didn’t understand in the place that saved me but left me covered in shit.
The work done, Granddaddy released the cows into the pasture behind the barn. The sun hung at a slant in the late afternoon sky. A slight breeze whispered across my shoulders. Granddaddy wiped his face with a blue bandana.
“You coming?” he called.
I heaved my body off the fence and let the water jug swing from the crook of my elbow. As I walked to the truck, I didn’t dodge the steamy mounds beneath my feet. I didn’t walk fast. I didn’t pretend that the shit was lava. I didn’t imagine that a loving God cared about a little girl on a Texas farm. In the truck, my filthy feet dangled above my sandals as we bumped along the dirt road back to the house.
II. Baptism
The summer before high school started my friend Jenni invited me on her family vacation to Hawaii. We’d tried out for the cheerleading squad together, had countless sleepovers, and the previous spring break her family had included me on their ski trip to Colorado. I felt so blessed to be folded into their family.
When we landed on the The Big Island, I went through a roll of film in less than an hour. In the courtyard of our condo, there was a multi-colored parrot and a riot of flowers that looked movie-set fake. I’d never seen such lush grass, smelled such fragrant flowers—it was like the whole island was spritzed with floral perfume. I bought macadamia nuts and white chocolate from a little store with a thatched roof.
“This is paradise,” I said, over and over. It was easy to believe in God’s endless love and bounty while eating slices of mango on a terrace in Hawaii.
On the fourth day, the blue sky curved above us, offering unfettered sunlight. I swapped my tennis shoes for flip flops. We rented boogie boards and drove to a look-out point at the top of the island. Pololu Valley. We repeated the name, each time putting the emphasis on a different syllable. I favored, “Po-LO-lu.” Half a mile below, the sea churned. Frothy white tongues of surf seemed to disappear into the mountain. We were four that day: Me, Jenni, her older brother Jake, and their dad. Their mom stayed back at the condo. She wasn’t much of a swimmer.
Jenni’s dad led us down the mountain path in a single file line, whistling a Beach Boys tune. As we descended the canopied trail, the cool air tickled my shoulders. Birds overhead chirped and cawed. The path was steep, but firm, and I managed in flip flops. I could hear the ocean rolling to the shore with a steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The sound of a seashell pressed to my ear. The trail opened to a plain of prairie grass, and beyond that, a black sand beach. Jenni, her brother, and I sprinted toward the shore. I struggled to keep up in my flimsy rubber shoes anchored to my feet by a thin strip of plastic between my first and second toes. We had the whole beach to ourselves. What did I do to deserve so much beauty and freedom?
I dumped my towel, peeled off my shirt and shorts, and hugged my boogie board to my chest. I slipped my feet out of the flip flops and wriggled my toes in the almost-too-hot sand. I dance-hopped my way into the waiting sea.
From the look-out point above, the ocean promised rollicking waves we could ride to the shore. But underneath the surface lurked a violent undertow that clutched my body. As soon as I waded in up to my knees, a wave knocked me down and sucked me under. Before I could fully right myself, a new wave slammed into me, turning me upside down. Salt water swirled all around me, burning my nose and throat. I prayed to be spit toward the shallow water where I could stand up, but I was continually pulled back, away, downward. I clawed at the water with my arms, my feet frantic to find the sandy bottom.
A thought flickered: Is this it? Is this where I die?
And then: a gush of water pushed me toward the shore.
I landed in a spot where the water was only a few feet deep. I stood up, panting, trying to get my bearings.
I turned my back on the ocean and walked to higher, drier ground. Jenni followed shortly behind. “That’s too rough. Let’s just lay out,” she said. We hoped to return to Dallas with golden tans.
“What’s that orange thing?” Jenni’s hand cupped at her forehead like a visor. She pointed a few yards ahead where the water was knee-high. It was a boogie board, still attached to her dad’s wrist. He floated face-down beside it. Jenni and I raced to him and grabbed his arms. White hot terror shot through my veins. We screamed his name into the ocean. We dragged him to the shore. We pumped his chest.
Out of his nose and mouth, water flowed and flowed and flowed. Jenni’s brother fought his way out of the ocean. When he registered our screams, he broke into a full sprint.
“I’ll go for help,” I said, as soon as Jake arrived. If I ran fast enough, praying the whole way, God might hear me. Please let him be okay.
I bolted toward the mountain path. My legs churned so fast I never felt the ground. At the trail, my bare feet gripped the cool, packed earth. I willed my legs to move faster, but the pitch of hill was steep. My lungs burned. My feet slipped on the packed earth of the trail. When I stopped to catch my breath, I could hear Jenni and Jake keening. Shouting at God. Please! Halfway up, I stubbed my toe on a rock and landed, spread eagle, on the path. Stars swam in my vision. Both my feet were covered with sand and earth. My left big toe and knee leaked blood but I felt no pain. Please, God, please. Get me up this mountain.
Once my bare feet hit the warm asphalt of the main road, I flagged down four elderly golfers in plaid pants and spiked shoes who were admiring the view. “Help!” They took off down the trail toward the beach as soon as they understood there were children alone with their father’s body. I didn’t follow them. I paced the edge of the look-out point, trying to see through the trees and around the jutted-out face of the mountain. Pebbles ground into the soles of my feet, but now the pain felt good. If I suffered Jenni’s dad would live.
I crossed the pavement into a yard that extended to the front steps of a log cabin. The cool grass felt like morning on my feet. I knocked on the cabin door with my fists, and then slapped it with my palms. No one answered.
At the Kona police station, I walked through the air-conditioned halls with Jenni and Jake, still in my bathing suit, still in my bare feet. The institutional floor, cold white squares like my school cafeteria, sent chills up my ankles, through my calves, and along my spine. A police officer gave me a yellow foam blanket and nodded toward my mud-caked feet. “Sorry, we don’t have shoes.” Mine were back on the beach, half-buried in the sand like a treasure for someone else to find.
The police didn’t offer to escort us, three traumatized, sand-covered teenagers fifty miles from their lodging, nor did they offer to call Jenni’s mom. With great care, Jake steered the rental car back toward the condo along the road that hugged the ocean. The ominous sky gathered oranges, purples, and pinks for a garish sunset that felt like a brilliant, inescapable menace. My heart thumped an erratic rhythm. I kept forming the first lines of prayers. God, please… God, help us… God, why… Each time I trailed off.
We hurtled in silence. I wanted to go home so badly I bit my tongue in search of blood.
At dusk, we huddled at the door to the condo, trembling with the worst news imaginable. My toes gripped the concrete. Jenni’s mom knew as soon as she saw us through the peephole. The devastating math: four minus three.
They held each other in the doorway and sobbed. Otherworldly wails of anguish shook the walls as they slammed all the way into their grief. In the bathroom, I locked the door and lay down in the waterless bathtub, still in my bathing suit. I turned the knob for the cold water and let it run on my mud-caked and blood-splattered feet. Seconds later, I turned it off. I wanted to stay soiled. It felt right in a way that being clean didn’t.
III. Stigmata
Rehearsal was supposed to end at nine, but at nine fifteen the teacher clapped her hands and told us to take it from the top one more time. The stern line of her lips broadcast her displeasure. We’d been rehearsing the same allegro for two hours and couldn’t make our bodies match her vision. The footwork at the end was fast and technical. Sixty four counts of brisés and jetés. We were unlikely to nail the timing now that we were exhausted and starving. My toes throbbed in my pointe shoes as I shuffled into position. The trick was to refuse to feel the wounds under my shoe. It required quick, shallow breaths as I waited for the music to start. It also required this: a secret craving for the pain that would leave me hobbled for the next twenty-four hours.
It was the spring of sophomore year in high school, and I had rehearsals five days a week. The only days off were Wednesday and Sunday—one more day of rest than God took when he created the world. Other than the barre work on Tuesdays and Fridays, I wore pointe shoes. Capezios. Pale pink satin slippers with hard boxes that encased my toes. My mom sewed the satin ribbons that wound around my ankle on her heavy green Singer. I adored my pointe shoes when they were brand-new flawless satin canvases waiting for the story I would write with my feet. But I loved them most when they were worn in, and the frayed satin at the toes exposed the hard white box beneath.
The teacher dismissed us at nine thirty even though most of us hit the final pose half a beat late. I sat against the mirror and untied my shoes. I knew from the throbbing that the hard box I’d tied my feet into had rubbed the skin clean off my toes. Not at the tips, but along the knuckles where hard bone met stiff, unyielding plaster. My blood-soaked tights stuck to the inside of the box, so I tugged gently.
“Lambs wool, Christie,” the teacher said when she saw my mangled toes. Most dancers lined the tip of their shoes with lambs wool to protect their toes. I had some in my bag, but rarely used it. Lambs wool felt like cheating.
My ballet teacher drove me home because my house was on the way. I shuffled to her car, my swollen feet only half in my tennis shoes so the heels flapped on the asphalt. “Zee you tomorrow!” she said in her thick French accent when she pulled up to my house. Once inside, I dropped my bag and greeted my parents who dozed on matching couches in the living room while waiting for the local news. Back in the kitchen, I zapped the plate of food my mom left Saran-wrapped on the table. Forty-five seconds for rice, chicken breast, and green beans. My brother and sister, having eaten hours earlier, holed up in their rooms, talking on the phone or finishing algebra homework.
After eating, I placed the rubber stopper in the drain, filled the kitchen sink with lukewarm water, and shook the tub of Morton’s salt across the basin. The grains fell like lazy stars. I climbed onto the kitchen counter and slid my mangled feet into the water. I held my breath, sure the sting would snatch my breath, but it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. Bent over my knees, I watched the bits of skin—blisters formed and then rubbed off—swaying in the water. Flags of surrender. I was tempted to pull them off, but it was best to let them be. Later, when my feet were dry, the ripped-off skin could cover the wounds like a blanket.
No one in my family objected to my soaking my battered toes where we also rinsed our apples, lettuce, and freshly boiled pasta. I hid in plain sight.
As I slept, the rent skin on my toes brushed against the cotton sheets. Quick breath, dark room, hot pain. Pain like the saints in my childhood books. My confirmation saint was Catherine of Siena who endured five of Christ’s wounds, though no one could see them but her. I chose her because I believed her.
Like Catherine, I offered wordless prayers from my flesh. Prayers to be worthy. To be forgiven for my anger, the blasphemy, and sorrow. For the doubt that had shredded my belief into frayed strands.
I relaxed my toes—wriggling or straightening them ignited the pain—and stuck my feet over the side of the bed, letting them dangle, away from the sting of the sheets. I steadied my breath and drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, my dad turned on my light and called out my name. A new day. The seeping wounds were dry but not fully scabbed over. I wrapped baby-sized Band-Aids around the worst wounds: the second and fourth toes on each foot. Next, socks. Wince. Breathe. Carpool’s waiting. The first period bell rings at seven fifty. I bit my lip as I shimmied the swollen, bandaged mess into my penny loafers. Once my shoes were on, everything was so tightly packed that the pain registered as if from far away. Muffled. A cry into a pillow. A bullet fired into a bale of cotton. A scream into the roaring ocean.
The thump, thump, thump of the wounds underneath the leather of my shoes was the secret soundtrack of my day. You are so alive, it said. So, so alive. During the school day, I slipped off my loafers and rubbed the soles of my feet against the hard-grained carpet while taking notes on Copernican discoveries and the isolation of Hester Prynne. After lunch, we studied the seven corporeal works of mercy with Sister Sue Ann.
There were salves to apply to the wounds. Some dancers swore by New Skin, a tincture you could daub on your seeping toes that would form a protective coating. It smelled funny and stung. It didn’t work for me. Maybe because I didn’t believe in it. What I believed in was pain. I gazed at my mangled toes with adoration. The rust- and crimson-colored wounds against peach-colored skin was beatific. Sublime. I couldn’t believe what I could endure.
After school, I raced through my quadratic equations and reading assignment so I could be dressed in my leotard and ready to go again at six. I limped into the studio, thinking it would be impossible to dance en pointe, but once the music started, my footwork was quick, a breath faster than the music. Dance fast so the pain couldn’t pin me down. I welcomed the sensations exploding beneath my pink shoes. The pain meant I was suffering; the music meant it was art.
The hard plaster box of the pink satin pointe shoe was my place of worship. Each relevé was a sacrament, each piqué a benediction. The pain was a priest with the power to resolve every burning question, soothe every aching doubt, and blunt every sharp truth. Pain thrust me out of the questions in my head and the sorrows of my heart. I soared above all the middle places and edges—the fences, the shorelines, the mountain tops—where I’d huddled to remain safe. The heart-quickening truth of my undeniably alive body sanctified me and centered me. On the tips of my ten toes.
I also believed I was atoning—for what I didn’t know, but the ocean flowed through me too. If you held my pointe shoes up to your ear like a seashell, you could hear crashing waves.
Christie Tate is an author and essayist who lives in Chicago. Her memoir, Group, published in Fall 2020, was a Reese Witherspoon Bookclub Pick and a New York Times Bestseller. Find her on Instagram at @christieotate.
